Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.

Hello everyone! So after a particularly rotten day, I felt compelled to write something so I tackled one of the prompts given to me by Ciel Blanche, who requested a non-slash, caring!Lestrade and sick!Sherlock. It was a bit of a challenge at first but once I got going, I was surprised at how easy it was to write. Anyways, I hope you enjoy it.

Sherlock stood in the middle of the room, eyes working over his surroundings.

"Anything?" Lestrade, slipping his mobile in his pocket, asked from behind him. Sherlock put a hand, wordlessly telling Lestrade to shut up. His mind processed what he was seeing and finally a small smile formed on his lips before turning to leave.

"What, does that mean you've solved it?" Lestrade asked, hurrying after Sherlock.

"Of course." Sherlock said, stopping to let the coroner pass with a gurney. "But I need to test something. I'll be in touch."

Sherlock pushed past the officers milling around and left the house, leaving Lestrade in a daze. Although he had stopped wondering how Sherlock did it years ago, the thought process never ceased to amaze him, although it was a bit annoying when Sherlock just blew out without sharing his knowledge. Lestrade sighed and turned back to the crime scene.

"Alright, let the ME's do their thing."

Lestrade pulled out his mobile and was looking at it when there were pounding footsteps coming through the entrance hall.

"Detective Inspector, you'd better come quickly."

Lestrade glanced up to see a junior officer looking at him intently.

"Why, what's wrong?"

"It's Sherlock Holmes, Sir. He's …" the officer paused.

"He's what?" Lestrade prompted.

"He's ill."

Lestrade's first instinct was that he heard wrong. Sherlock ill? Was that even possible?

"You'd better come and see for yourself." The junior officer led Lestrade through the house to the front door. Lestrade stepped outside and saw Sherlock in the recovery position in the grass, Donovan kneeling over him.

"What happened?" Lestrade asked, crossing the lawn. Donovan stood up.

"He was looking at his mobile and he passed out."

"Just like that?" Lestrade looked down at Sherlock's motionless body.

"Just like that. He wasn't talking to anyone, he didn't say anything. We've called an ambulance."

"Good." Lestrade knelt down, noting how pale Sherlock looked. "Sherlock, can you hear me?"

"We've been trying to wake him," Anderson's voice was heard over Lestrade's shoulder. "He won't come round."

"Sherlock, you need to wake up." Lestrade ignored Anderson's comment, making Anderson roll his eyes. Why was it that no one ever took what he said seriously?

"Come on, Sherlock."

The ambulance siren could be heard a few streets off when Sherlock's eyes fluttered.

"Sherlock, can you hear me?"

In response, Sherlock's eyes opened lazily a split second before he vomited. Lestrade jumped back, although not quickly enough. His shoe was covered in sick and he crinkled his nose.

"I am not cleaning that up." Donovan said, just as Anderson complained,

"He's just contaminated the crime scene."

Lestrade rolled his eyes.

"Anderson, inside. Donovan, go wait for the ambulance at the end of the driveway."

The two went off each with a huff and Lestrade knelt by Sherlock again.

"It's alright, Sherlock. The ambulance will be here in a few minutes."

"No."

"Come on, Sherlock, don't be difficult. Clearly something's not right, just go and get it checked out."

"There's nothing wrong with me." Sherlock rolled onto his back before forcing himself into a sitting position. He fought vertigo for a moment before his vision cleared. He looked at Lestrade.

"I'm fine."

"Then how come you passed out?"

"Don't know, Detective Inspector. Perhaps it was Anderson's overwhelmingly strong after-shave."

Lestrade rolled his eyes and stood as Sherlock got to his feet.

"I should make you go to hospital. Clearly you're ill."

"Ill or not, you're not going to."

"And why not?"

"Because I can help you solve this case in time for you to still be able to catch your flight to the Caribbean."

"How did you know about - "

"You have a suitcase in the car, obviously you're going away somewhere. You keep checking your mobile, presumably checking flight schedules or e-mails to say your flight is on time. The jacket you're wearing is quite light for this time of year so you're planning on going to the airport without going home first, where you'll get on a plane to somewhere warm."

"How did you know it was the Caribbean?"

"Travel brochures on your desk, two months ago. Although correct me if I'm wrong, your flight doesn't leave till midnight tonight."

The ambulance pulled up to the drive and Lestrade was just staring at Sherlock, mesmerized once again. The doors slammed as the EMT's got out and Sherlock turned to look at him.

"It's up to you, Detective Inspector."

Lestrade sighed.

"Fine, but as soon as you tell me what the bloody hell happened, I am taking you home to rest."

"Whatever you say." Sherlock said under his breath as Donovan led two EMT's over to them.

"Are you Sherlock Holmes?" one of the EMT's asked Lestrade.

"No, but I think there was a misunderstanding."

Donovan looked at Lestrade, then to Sherlock, and back to Lestrade before throwing her hands up in the air and leaving the four of them on the lawn.

"We got a call about a man, Sherlock Holmes, who passed out?"

"Just stood up too fast is all." Sherlock said without taking his eyes off his mobile.

"When my officers saw him faint, they panicked and called for an ambulance. I'm sorry for the trouble."

With one last suspicious look at Sherlock, who didn't seem to notice, the EMT's nodded, said they understood, and returned to the ambulance and drove off. Lestrade turned back to Sherlock.

"You realize that if I wasn't a senior officer, they would've insisted you go to hospital right?"

Sherlock didn't answer and Lestrade sighed.

"Alright, what have you got?"

Sherlock put his mobile back in his pocket and began talking quickly. Lestrade could barely keep up but when Sherlock finished, he was swaying slightly and the colour had drained from his face.

"Great, but let's get you home now. You look like you're about to keel over."

Lestrade took Sherlock's arm and led him to the squad car. He was about to get behind the wheel when the same junior officer sprinted out of the door.

"Detective Inspector! You're needed upstairs."

"Can't Donovan handle it?" Lestrade called back but the officer shook his head and Lestrade sighed.

"Alright, I'll be right there. Tell Donovan I need to see her."

Lestrade leaned down to see into the car and found Sherlock leaning against the headrest, eyes closed.

"You wanted to see me?" Donovan came out of the house and joined him by the squad car.

"Yeah, take Sherlock home and put him to bed."

Donovan opened her mouth to protest.

"Just do it, Donovan. I'll be by after I'm done here."

It was clear that Donovan was not happy but Lestrade just handed her the keys before walking towards the house. Donovan, with a very angry sigh, got in the car and started it, grumbling under her breath.

She pulled up to 221B Baker Street and glanced over at her passenger.

"Hey, Freak."

She saw Sherlock's forehead cringe at her loud voice and she couldn't help but soften slightly. He looked so much less … annoying when he was sick.

"Sherlock." Sally shook his shoulder in what one would not call a gentle manner. Sherlock's eyes flew open.

"What are you doing here?" he asked as Donovan unbuckled her seatbelt.

"Lestrade asked me to take you home. Come on, let's go."

Sherlock slowly got out of the car and unearthed his keys while Donovan waited impatiently. Sherlock unlocked the door, hating how his hand shook in front of the officer he despised, and left it open behind him. He went upstairs wordlessly and took off his coat, followed by Donovan.

"You can go now." Sherlock said, noting that Donovan was still standing in his living room a moment later.

"Lestrade said to make sure you went to bed."

"Thanks for your concern, Sally, but I'm fine."

"Says the one who passed out and puked at a crime scene."

"I'm fine."

"Where's John?"

"Medical conference in Cambridge. Won't be back till tonight."

Sherlock had fallen into his chair and at this point jammed his fists into his eyes. Donovan shuffled uncomfortably.

"Okay, look. I'm just as uncomfortable as you are with this,"

"I'm not uncomfortable." Sherlock interrupted.

"But can you just please go and lie down on your bed?"

"Why?"

"Because you're ill."

"Am not."

"Wanna bet?"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I bet you're running a temperature."

"Am not."

At that moment, the front door slammed and Lestrade came up the stairs.

"What's the problem?" he asked, finding Donovan squared off against Sherlock, her arms crossed.

"I thought I told you to put him to bed."

"He won't go." Donovan said. "He doesn't believe he's ill."

"I'm not. Passing out doesn't make me ill."

"But vomiting does."

"Maybe I just ate some bad cheese."

Lestrade rolled his eyes.

"Where's your thermometer?"

When Sherlock didn't answer, Lestrade turned to Donovan.

"Check the bathroom."

Donovan, still clearly uncomfortable and wishing she was home sick herself, went to the bathroom and returned a moment later with the electronic device.

"Do we need to disinfect it first?" she asked, only half kidding as she handed it to Sherlock.

"Of course not. I have a different one I use for my experiments. This one was John's. And just to prove to you that I am not ill, I will humour you."

With that, Sherlock put the thermometer in his mouth and waited for it to beep. When it did, he pulled it out and studied it, his brow furrowing.

"That can't be right."

"What's the problem, superstar?" Donovan asked, a hint of superiority playing in her voice.

"Nothing." Sherlock said with a quick smile, putting the thermometer in his jacket pocket.

"Sherlock, what was it? Tell us, we're not going until you do."

Donovan looked quickly at Lestrade, annoyed that he had just committed her to staying here until Sherlock stopped being stubborn. So basically she was going to be here all night. Sherlock rolled his eyes, trying to decide if he was more bothered by the fact that he'd have to tell them that he was running a temperature or the idea of Donovan staying in his flat for so long. It didn't take long to decide.

"38.5."

"Still think you're not ill, huh?" Donovan asked smugly and Sherlock looked at Lestrade pointedly.

"Okay, Donovan. Thanks for driving him, you can go now."

It didn't take very long for Sally to be out of there, she didn't even say goodbye. As the front door slammed for a second time, Lestrade returned Sherlock's pointed look.

"Come on, Sherlock. You can cut the act now, you must be feeling awful. Into bed with you."

Sherlock debated for a moment but decided that Lestrade was right. He felt horrible and to be honest, he didn't care anymore about what Lestrade thought about him on a personal level – he would always come to him with cases, no matter what happened now.

"Fine, but don't feel the need to stick around."

Sherlock walked down the hall to the bedroom and changed into a t-shirt and pyjama pants before collapsing into his bed with a contented sigh. There was a knock on his door.

"I thought I told you to leave." Sherlock said in response before the door opened.

"Well, I couldn't trust you to rest once I was gone and like you said, with the case cleared up – you were right, by the way,"

"Of course I was right." Sherlock interrupted as Lestrade handed him a cup of tea.

"I don't have anywhere to be until the airport at eight o'clock tonight."

"Wrong."

"Sorry?"

"Donovan took your car. Your bag is now at New Scotland Yard again."

Lestrade rolled his eyes for the umpteenth time that day.

"Fine, I don't have anywhere to be until seven-thirty tonight and seeing as John is gone, I figured I'd just stay with you and make sure you don't burn down half of Baker Street conducting some experiment with a fever like that."

"I'm not five years old, Inspector."

"Could've fool me." Lestrade said. "I'll be in the living room if you need anything."

As it turned out, it was rather fortunate that Lestrade decided to stay with Sherlock. The afternoon wore on and as the sun began to set behind London, Sherlock began to feel uncomfortable. He tossed and turned in his bed, so much so that Lestrade came knocking again.

"Sherlock, are you alright? I can hear you in the living room."

Lestrade opened the door and entered to see Sherlock tangled in the blankets, sweating out a fever that was obviously more than 38.5 degrees.

"Sherlock!" Lestrade said in a loud voice, causing Sherlock to snap awake.

"Are you alright?" Lestrade asked again while he found the thermometer in Sherlock's suit jacket, which he had hung up in the wardrobe.

"I feel ill." Sherlock said from his bed. Unlike before, Sherlock didn't hesitate to check his temperature and he groaned when he saw the reading before handing the thermometer to Lestrade.

"Bloody hell, Sherlock, 38.9 degrees. Maybe now I should be taking you to hospital."

"It's alright." Sherlock said rather breathlessly. "I always run high fevers when I'm ill. 38.9 is nothing new."

"Are you sure?" Lestrade asked, feeling somewhat skeptical but Sherlock nodded.

"It's fine."

"Alright. Are you hungry? Do you want something to eat?"

Sherlock shook his head.

"No, I'll be fine. I just need to sleep and by tomorrow I'll be better."

"At least take some paracetamol."

Sherlock, feeling tired-out by the conversation, nodded and Lestrade left and returned with the medicine.

"Uh, just call if you need anything else." Lestrade said awkwardly before closing Sherlock's door and returning to his overdue paperwork.

Lestrade looked up from his book – he had finished his paperwork and had scoured the bookshelves for something that looked at least a little entertaining – when he heard the front door open and closed. Wondering if it was John or Mrs. Hudson, he got his answer when John came up the stairs, a leather briefcase slung over one shoulder.

"Greg, what are you doing here?" John asked in surprise. "Where's Sherlock?"

Greg could see the immediate fear that had filled John's face a moment after he asked the question.

"Relax, John. Sherlock is fine. Well, not really, but he's alive."

"What do you mean 'not really', Greg? What's going on?"

"Sherlock's ill. He passed out this morning at our crime scene and after he refused to go to hospital, I took him home. He's in his bedroom."

"What's wrong with him?" John asked, somewhat relieved.

"He's just running a temperature, although he says it'll be gone in the morning."

"Probably true, if that's all it is. How high was it?"

"I gave him some paracetamol around four o'clock at it was at 38.9, although he says that's normal for him when he's sick."

John nodded as if confirming this fact and Lestrade wondered if perhaps the consulting detective was laid low more often than he let on.

"Anything else?"

"Like I said, he passed out this morning and he vomited after he came to but other than that, nothing."

Greg checked his watch.

"And now that you're home, I've got a plane to catch."

"Off on holiday?" John asked as Lestrade pulled on his coat.

"Yep – two weeks in beautiful Jamaica with the wife."

"Sounds nice. Have fun."

"Thanks. Tell Sherlock I hope he feels better."

"Will do." John said. "Oh, Greg?"

Lestrade stopped in the doorway and turned around.

"Thanks for looking out for him."

"No problem. 'Bye, John."

"'Bye."

After Lestrade left, John sighed and walked down the hallway. He opened the door to Sherlock's room.

"John, is that you?" Sherlock mumbled.

"Yeah, it's me. How're you feeling?"

"Better."

"Good." John said, stepping over to the bed. He laid a hand to Sherlock's brow. "Your fever feels like it's going down."

Sherlock mumbled agreement.

"Just get some sleep." John said. "And you'll be good as new tomorrow."

"I know."

John gave the customary reaction – rolling his eyes – before leaving Sherlock to his dreams.

I'm rather pleased with how this turned out. Reviews are always welcome and very much appreciated!